Assassins' Dawn (64 page)

They walked away. At the opening of the shields, just before they went out into sunlight, Gyll glanced back at the screen.

Snagged in trees, a fume of woodsmoke sagged against the sunrise.

Chapter 5

T
HE VICTIM WAS KIRLLIA MECHEM, temple harlot for the Church of Bazlot in Henima, halfway across Neweden from Underasgard. Bazlot was a minor demigod in the Neweden pantheon; most of the Hoorka knew little about Him except for His existence, though Steban ventured that he thought Bazlot was the god of cloth-dyers. None of the kin knew why a god of cloth-dyers would need a temple harlot, but the speculation was varied and amusing. It seemed that Kirllia had somehow contrived to blackmail one of the priests of the temple. She’d been clumsy; the revelate was not inclined to take the punishment into his own hands or to go through the authorities. “Let Bazlot decide through Dame Fate,” he’d said. “She’s not worth the money for your contract, but the church has it and it saves me trouble. If she lives, she’ll be more docile, and, who knows, it may be good sport.”

Valdisa had found that she did not care for the man at all, but that was not a matter for Hoorka. They needed the money. She’d taken the money and swallowed her misgivings. She sent the apprentices.

The alternatives had been offered—Kirllia had no wealth of her own, and Bazlot’s revelate forbade any church member to lend her funds. She would run. Watch was set, and the full kin readied.

Serita Iduna did not care for her partner. Meka Joh was new to full kinship; he’d been a low apprentice when Ulthane Gyll had left the Hoorka. Joh was competent enough, Serita admitted, but there was an eagerness to him when he was working a contract, an enthusiasm that bothered her deeply. It wasn’t present when he practiced—he was rather far down on the unofficial rankings of practice matches—but Joh became animated and excited with a contract. There were others in the Hoorka like him: blood excited them, the thrill of the hunt coupled with a modicum of danger gave them a pleasure akin to sexual arousal. Serita avoided Joh and those kin he emulated, and she disliked being paired with him. Serita looked across at Joh’s sharp profile as they circled Henima, preparatory to landing. He was leaning forward, his nose just touching the flitter’s window, peering down at the small city anxiously. He seemed to notice Serita’s stare; he pulled back and smiled as the craft banked and descended. “Should be fun, Serita. I’ve never run anyone in Henima before. Have you?”

“No,” she said, simply. She moved her gaze away, glancing at the windshield as they landed near the Church of Bazlot. The overhead rotors churned air.

“I took a glance at the maps before we left. There’s quite a large lassari sector here. The revelate and his people are half-lassari anyway. My bet is she’ll hole up with someone from the church.”

“Could be.”
Shut up, shut up. Why couldn’t it have been McWilms or Bachier, somebody I like?

“You’re awfully quiet. Not feeling well? We could still call Underasgard and tell the Thane—”

“No,” Serita interrupted. “I’m fine. Let’s just get this over with, Meka.”

His face brightened slightly at that. He swung his door open; the cool air of Henima, far north of the equator, lashed at them. Serita pulled up the hood of her nightcloak. Even the presence of the sunstar, high in a thin net of clouds, didn’t seem to affect the chill. Serita shivered.

An apprentice met them before they reached the church. “Easy one, this woman,” the apprentice—a boy by the name of Relka—said. He was a tall and lanky youth, cocky and sure of himself; too much like Meka Joh, to Serita’s mind. He laughed. “She’s unarmed, unshielded, and running. You’ll have the hunt of the knives; a quick one, at that. She’s slow and she’s stupid. Go down this street to the first corner, turn left. Mala should be there to meet you and point out the victim. When I left her, the idiot was in a market, trying to pretend that she was just one of the locals, shopping.”

“Good job, Relka,” Meka said. He slapped the boy on the shoulder. “Head for the flitter, then. Felling’s got a stew packed in for you.”

Serita merely nodded to the apprentice as he passed her. He shrugged at her silence and left them. The two Hoorka followed his direction. In the daylight, the city was dingy and active; mostly low houses huddled close together as if for warmth against the northern breezes. The Church of Bazlot stooped over them like a stern parent. A persistent wind shuffled papers in the gutters. The people milling about gave the Hoorka their customary wide berth, caution due them for their reputation. There were unguarded sour stares from the men huddled around small fires on the porch steps; long assessing glares from women leaning, elbows on sills, from the grimy windows. It was like any poor district they’d seen before, but there was nothing to balance the image. They saw the busy, noisy filth, and they saw the whole of Henima. “Worse than Dasta before it burned,” Meka commented as they walked. “And damned colder.”

Mala waved at them as the Hoorka entered an open square crowded with shoppers and tiny stalls crammed with produce. The open market was loud, chaotic, and filled with smells. The Hoorka went to the apprentice, and found themselves standing in an inviolate circle around which all passersby moved, scowling but unwilling to risk the anger of Hoorka. Mala shook her head. “They hate us,” she said, holding out her cloak so both Hoorka could see the purple stain spreading over the cloth. “A rotten sweetrind—someone threw it at my back. Just be glad you’ll get out of here quickly. The woman’s down this row, the second one over. She’s wearing a blue scarf on her head, and a dragon-patterned tunic. Can’t miss her; she looks absolutely terrified. She’d never have made it as an actress.”

“It’s really going to be that easy?” Meka Joh looked disappointed; that disturbed Serita more than her kin-brother’s previous eagerness.

“Let me take her, then, if it’s not interesting enough for you,” she said, more sharply than she’d intended. Joh glanced at her strangely.

“You’re the elder, Serita. You rule the contract, not me. Tell me how you want it done.”

Serita shrugged. A gust of wind made her squint, threw dust from the street into her eyes and flapped the canvas tops of the stalls. She stared at the passing crowds—
they know we’re on a contract, and they wonder who we hunt. And they hate, even if they say nothing and are careful not to offend.
“Go around to the end of the row she’s in—I’ll give you a minute or so to get there, and then we’ll work in toward her. You know the woman’s face?”

“I’ll recognize her. There won’t be a mistake.”

“Good. Mala, you can go back to the flitter. You’ve done well, girl. Our thanks.” Mala nodded to the Hoorka and moved away. Joh, after another glance at Serita’s noncommittal face, swiveled on his toes and strode off. People bumped and shoved each other to get out of his path.

Serita was left alone in the circle of fear. Now they stared at her, the hateful eyes; wondering, cautious. She tugged at the collar of her nightcloak, trying to bring the hood farther over her face. Only her eyes could be seen. She reached for her belt, felt the comforting, worn hilt of her vibro. The gesture made the watchers stumble back, and when she strode forward, a path cleared for her. No one spoke; her silence was herald enough. All would leave off haggling to watch her pass, holding a forgotten melon or swatch of cloth. The strident cries of the vendors trailed off in mid-pitch.
Hoorka.
Serita heard the word: a curse, a whisper. They crowded again behind her, spectators now at this deadly amusement. She could feel them pressing at her back, filling the lane between the stalls.
Hoorka.
They might hate, but they would watch, would feed on the death.

Serita returned their hate.

The crowd parted before her. Serita saw the woman a fraction of a second before the victim noticed the Hoorka. She was indeed painfully obvious, her gaze never resting, never stopping to examine the wares around her. When that wandering glance found the assassins and saw Serita staring, her face paled, and Serita could hear the intake of breath. Far too late, Kirllia noticed that everyone had stepped back from her, leaving her and the Hoorka in the center of the lane. She tried to follow the crowd’s example belatedly, clumsily, half-stumbling. Serita halted, waiting. She pulled again at the nightcloak’s collar.

“Kirllia Mechem, your life is claimed by Hag Death and She of the Five,” Serita said, her voice low and soft. Kirllia’s eyes closed; she moaned. Serita thought she might fall.

Then, abruptly, Kirllia slashed out at those next to her with hands curled into claws. She ran, but she did not go far. A few meters down the way stood Joh. Kirllia was trapped in a narrow tunnel walled with people, death at either end. A high wailing escaped her clenched lips.

“That’s it, woman. Run right to me.” Joh’s vibro flickered from its sheath, its throaty growling loud. “Let’s see if you can get past me.”

“Meka!”
Serita took a step toward the woman. She glared at Joh, then back to Kirllia. “There are other ways of death,” she said. “We have a capsule that will bring you laughter and sleep. This doesn’t need to be painful if you don’t resist. But my kin-brother is right; you can’t escape us.” Closer, always closer. One step, another. The crowd watched, rapt, silent.

“No . . .”

Step. “You can’t deny the Hag with words, Kirllia.” Step. “She won’t listen, or She’ll make it more difficult for you.”

“Let her run to me, Serita,” Joh said loudly. “Why waste an expensive capsule on
this?”

The sneer in his voice was entirely too audible. With Joh’s words, several things happened at once. Serita began to speak��angry words—but someone in the crowd acted first. A frozen puffindle from the fishmonger’s stand arced toward Joh’s back. The Hoorka, with preternatural awareness, seemed to sense the missile; he ducked, and the puffindle struck ground. Kirllia was already moving, trying to make her way past the crouching Joh into the mass of people. It was a foolish move. Joh tripped her with an outthrust leg and, in nearly the same motion, brought his vibro down and over in a slicing motion. Kirllia died with the sudden screams of the crowd. Blood splashed and seeped into the dirt between the stalls.

Joh ignored the body. As Serita ran toward him, he picked up the puffindle and brandished it before the faces near him. “Who’s the coward that threw this? Will he stand up and admit it, or is he the typical lassari?” Joh used the impersonal mode scathingly, his gaze raking the spectators. His vibro gleamed red; a droplet shivered on its tip.

“Meka . . .” Serita said warningly. She knelt beside Kirllia; the woman was dead. She made the sign of the star over the body.

“I didn’t throw it, Hoorka,” a man said. He pushed his way to the front of the crowd, a burly, tall lassari with close-cropped hair and an ugly, pocked face. “But I might’ve, if it had been closer to me. What of it, neh? What’s wrong with giving the woman a chance?”

“You interfere with Hoorka, man, and you risk your own life.”

“Insult lassari as you do, and you risk yours, as well. Look around you, assassin; how many of us are there? And there’s only two of you, and all you have are vibros—a stick might serve as well, neh? I mean no insult”—the man’s voice bordered on sarcasm—“but you might consider where you are before you open that stinking mouth of yours again.”

Serita did not let Joh reply. She felt suddenly cold and frightened.
“Meka,”
she said, sharply. The Hoorka stared at the lassari. His hand twitched around the vibro hilt; Serita could see muscles bunching in his forearm, and she thought he would cut at the man.
“Meka,”
she shouted again. “I need your help wrapping the body.”

Joh stood motionless; then, angrily, he flung the puffindle back to the ground. His vibro flicked off and he shoved it into his sheath. He stalked over to Serita as the crowd watched, as the tall lassari chuckled deep in his throat. The Hoorka began wrapping the body in a spare nightcloak.

“If you
ever
behave like that on a contract again, I’ll see you flayed before all the kin, Meka,” Serita whispered harshly as they worked. “Believe me, kin-brother, the Thane will be told of this. Your silly theatrics could get us both killed. I won’t have it. Not again. You insult the victim, her people, and Hoorka with your attitude.”

His eyes narrowed dangerously, but his voice was soft. “Why, kin-sister, one might almost think you
like
these scum.”

“They’re people. Like you or I might have been. Give it a thought, Meka. Maybe She of the Five will see that you come back as the lowest lassari scum yourself.”

“I’d still like to knock that bastard’s laughter down his throat, along with his teeth. He’s still there, still watching us.”

“All it would prove is that you’re a stupid fool who courts the Hag.”

“I won’t take
your
insults either, Serita.” His voice was still soft. “I’ll call for first blood on the practice floor in satisfaction.”

“You’ve got it, then. First blood, Meka, when we get back. And I hope you enjoy being cut.” Serita stood, wiping her hands together. The crowd had thinned, going back to the day’s tasks, but the lassari man still watched, leaning against a corner of a nearby stall. He smiled, gap-toothed, at Serita. She gave him the barest of nods in acknowledgment. “Let’s get this body back to the revelate, then,” she said. “Afterward, we’ll settle our differences.”

•   •   •

Gyll thought he recognized him. Taller, yes; a man, not a boy anymore, changed. But the face, the walk . . . “McWilms?” he called. “Jeriad?”

The man across the street, in the sable-and-gray nightcloak of the Hoorka, turned at the sound of the name. The face went from aloof neutrality to a shocked smile. “Ulthane? I’ll be damned . . .”

Laughing, they embraced in the middle of the street. Those around them stared curiously: the Hoorka never show affection, never smile except at death; conversations that night would be preceded by “You’d never believe what I saw today . . .” Gyll held McWilms at arm’s length, studying him and shaking his head. “Look at you, boy. When I saw you last, your face was a wreck, and this arm was gone. They did a fine job on you. Gods, that’s good to see.”